17 December 1975
Carlsbad, CA
Dear Peter,
Merry happy Christmas—or what you and Martha and not-so-little Jean make of non-Jewish holidays these days, I myself am not so clear on this point anymore, or anything else. Here in Paradise, on the other hand, where Mr. Santa Claus wears sunglasses and surfing shorts, we are in states of perpetual ennui. So I am told. And that is the polite word.
California is cheaper than New Jersey, but not so cheap that money grows rather than disappears. I would give you our latest address and hope you visit but we are moving again soon. Because it’s on the ground floor this apartment is gloomy and too open to invasive neighbors who are not always what they say. However, one of my nice women at Christian Science church here told me about this apartment on the other side of town that could be better for us. I will go tomorrow and look. You will sniff at this idea of Christian Science, Peter—I can hear you, sniff-sniff—and I will not claim I believe all they preach or do, but there is structure to their rules and regulations that I find helpful with my drinking too much and even, let me say, some days I find it almost consoling. Some form and structure I mean in this freewheeling universe of California sun. On this boundless earth we must find help where each of us can, do you not agree? I have removed the vodka from the glove box of my Dodge. I am no longer waking myself at night with helpless questionings, spoken aloud, to my dear nurse, Alexandra Andreevna, about when my mother is going to come home to me and whether she was still bleeding after she was dead. I am trying not to torture myself too much with thoughts about how one day on the banks of the Ganges I managed to convince my brain that to leave Josef and Katya in Moscow was to free them—what a martyr I thought I was—when in fact I might as well have locked them away in Lubyanka with my own hands.
No, for my mental health, I must try to give time now only to those thoughts of daily motherhood that prove me trustworthy in my own home. Otherwise how can I be alone with Yasha, this innocent child who needs me most urgently? And he with me? How can he rely on me to do what is right and good? What will we do?
I tell you, my dearest Peter, and only you, that every day I fear they will come and take him away from me. Every single day. And every single day, sometime or else, a part of me believes it would be better for him if they did.
Your loving
Svetlana